


Astral dream

by Mercykiller



Category: LARP - Fandom
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 01:46:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15523368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercykiller/pseuds/Mercykiller
Summary: A dream carries the orc to another realm.





	Astral dream

Breath misted as vapor in the air, the stamp of feet to shake off the chill, creaking trees as they swayed at command of the wind that blew fiercely biting into any exposed flesh, also carrying the distant sounds of war. Metal on metal, clashed swords and roars of bloodlust, with it came the tang of sweat and fear, anger and rage.  
The land was dark, the sun hiding its face behind grey storm clouds that looked like they carried with it the might of the gods and they were just waiting for the right moment to unleash their gifts to the mortal realms. The ground was covered in fallen leaves, rotting and turning from a golden yellow to the muddy brown, the grass that did grow was blackened by ashes from fires, any branches below arms reach had been stripped from the trees to fuel them. Tree sap ran like blood down the trunks where the bark had been stripped back with swords and axes, leaving deep gouges in the timber.  
A camp could be seen through the trees, dark and menacing, fetishes made from branches lashed together with course rope, strung with bones and pelts marked with blood and crushed ores, warning trespassers away on the pain of a gruesome death surrounded the spiked barricade before the camp proper, a mass of black and brown fabrics, hides and furs. Smoke rose in pillars from the camp, whether or not they were cook fires or not would mean entering the camp to find out.  
In the opposite direction of the camp and the forest rose a monstrous black mountain, it’s peak seemed to shift between ice capped and a molten yellow glow.

The figure walked unsteadily, shivering from the cold despite being wrapped in thick fur and layers of material, long strings of beads and bones hung from its neck, it moved towards the camp. Walking across puddles of gritty ice water without making a ripple or a sound, twigs and loose stones remained still as the figure walked through them. Pausing at each fetish it reached out to touch the small bones only to have its hand pass through them, the only movement that came was from the wind itself.  
Before reaching the of the camp, it tried again, this time reaching tentively for the still wet blood daubed on the front of a skull, it smeared as it wiped its fingers across the smooth bone, the figure looked down at their hand and found no blood to be found on its fingertips. Yet they still felt wet.  
“Blood carries power.” Echoed through their thoughts as they passed under the gate made from large bones and tusks of great beasts, the gaps panelled with the sheets of bark.  
They found the camp almost empty, a few stragglers remained, small hunched creatures with grey skin that shuffled around carrying supplies, weapons or wood for fires. The figure approached one and went to grab it by the shoulder only to be ignored as it continued to walk, the figures hand passing harmlessly through it. After a step or two the shrivelled orc shook as if it had walked through a thick spider’s web, looked around to look straight through the figure and then carried on with its appointed task.  
The figure walked deeper into the camp, passing shabby tents. Some were bare of decorations, these were the furthest from the centre of the camp, the ones that hung heavy with trophies were closer to the middle. It reminded the figure of someplace they knew but couldn’t quite remember. The most heavily decorated seemed to reek of old blood and the figure decided to avoid it entirely, something just felt off about it, as if going near it would mean doom for them.  
A loud cry rose from the front of the camp making the figure turn and walk back the way it had come, curiosity drawing it to the sounds more than anything else. Perhaps the camps occupants had returned.  
It was right, now there was a cluster of figures, covered head to toe in mismatching armour that looked rusted and very dented. Where there wasn’t steel there was blood-soaked leather, matted fur covered in muck, and worn, and patched clothing made of dark cloth.  
As the figure got closer they began to perceive the individuals, the first to catch her attention was a tall bruteish looking orc, a hood covering most of his head, a long whip trailed from his hand, it’s ends decorated in roughly cut pieces of metal that would likely inflict terrible wounds on the unlucky receiver. He pulled roughly on thick ropes that bound the hands of a couple paleskins who were wide eyed in panic, sending them sprawling to the ground. With the paleskins subdued and whimpering on the cold ground he turned to a smaller figure who carried a bow, their quiver bristling with arrows fletched with black feathers and red cording. There were white marking surrounding one eye and the face looked vaguely feminine. They both erupted into rough laughter, the smaller figure palmed across something shiny to the brute and walked away, nimbly disappearing into the camp.  
Off to the side from the main group a massive orc stood with his arms cross over his chest, the look of contempt on his face as easily seen as the red tattoo that covered his face, his gaze was locked onto the orcs in the middle of the gathering. 

The figure moved closer and circled around, the orcs were speaking in a dialect they couldn’t discern, the words were guttural and harsh on the ears, yet familiar and almost comforting that came with a sense of familiarity. The next orc the figures gaze lighted upon was another female, broad of the shoulder whose Iroquois styled white hair hung down her back. Her hands held a shield and a mighty sword that was the colour of oxidised blood.  
Next to her stood a group of three, two of them flanking an ancient looking orc who’s face looked withered, much older than any orc should be. It was marked with red and white and the toothy snarl that was his mouth curled in a snarl that hade the figure shudder, he gave off the same old blood scent as the tent in the depths of the camp.  
The other two were turned away from the figure but they could make out the one closest to them, short matted hair stained by who knew what, covered the back of his head, sunken eyes peered out over the high collar that looked like patchwork and watched the gathering, hands playing with the collection of blades that hung from his belt.  
At the center was an orc with black skin and hair, bones woven into the black beard that adorned his jawline, a fur mantle wrapped around his shoulders. The figure moved closer to get a better look, weaving through the crush of bodies, and even though it knew it would pass harmlessly through the bodies it tried it’s best not to touch them, when it did the orcs unconsciously emitted a low rumbling growl. The black orc appeared to be commanding the attention, from how he held himself and how the other looked it would seem he was the leader of the clan. The figure stepped so it could look them in the face, cunning eyes looked back through them, a long scar run from the right brow up the forehead and onto the scalp, the pock marks of where the sutures had been laid were clear on the skin.  
The figure turned away and came face to face with the orc who had been standing next to the ancient one only moments ago, now he was standing directly in its path, and glaring right at it, so close it could see the wooden bars embedded in the skin all over his face, the beads that were entangled in the long sideburns, the faint white that was the original colour of the shaggy fur wrapped around his shoulders. His lips pulled back into a snarl and revealed uneven pointed teeth, two longer tusks jutted from the lower jaw, he barked a word and reached out, the gaze of the orcs around him shifted to where he was reaching. The figure backed up a step only for the orc to step forward and lash out at the air, successfully snatching one of the long strings of beads in taloned fingers.  
This one could touch it? How? It though and looked in shock at the necklace that was enclosed in the fist, then into the eyes of the orc, from there it looked around as the gathering shifted, low growls turned to outraged roars as they all saw the figure now, hands leapt out at it but all passed through the form as harmlessly as before. The ancient orc was now moving forward, to join the other one.  
Why was it just this singular orc?  
The orc that held the necklace barked another word and began to draw a dagger, the figure pushed down the urge to strike out and took hold of the necklace in both hands.  
“Namulubut. I will remember this” It whispered and snapped the necklace as the orc swung at it with a closed fist.

Dura shivered and violently sat upright, the night was warm on her bare skin but she felt so cold, the dream had felt so real. She looked over at the sleeping forms of Dirge and Mulag, sprawled on the furs next to her and shook it off as nothing except a vivid dream brought on by whatever the shamans had decided to spike the booze with that night.  
With a yawn she lay back down and pulled Mulag closer to her, the scent of burnt incense filled her nose and she drifted back to sleep.  
Next to the furs lay a shattered necklace of beads and bones.


End file.
